


Consequences

by thedragonaunt



Series: Life After Death - A Post-Riechenbach Trilogy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedragonaunt/pseuds/thedragonaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock went away, he took Molly's heart with him but he left something even more precious behind. Now Molly must face her own great adventure alone. This story is the sequel to 'Aftermath', so is Part 2 of my post-Reichenbach trilogy. Some mild swearing. I have employed a bit of poetic licence with Sherlock's family history, in Chapter 5. I hope no one minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gone but not forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer – I own only my original characters and my original plots. The rest belongs to ACD, MG, SM and ST.
> 
> This story has been revised.

Molly sat on the side of her bath and stared at the object in her hand. She had read the instructions very carefully but she checked them again. 

One stripe – negative; two stripes – positive. 

There were definitely two stripes.

She wasn’t surprised. This was just confirmation. She would do a more scientific test at work, tomorrow, to confirm even more positively, but she had known already. She was as regular as clockwork in her monthly cycle – twenty eight days, spot on. It was six weeks since Sherlock left and she had just missed her second deadline. She was six weeks pregnant.

She was not entirely sure, yet, how she felt about that. Her most dominant feeling, at this moment, was wonder. She was struck by the awesome concept that she knew something that no one else in the whole world knew – she was pregnant with Sherlock Holmes’s baby.

The day he left, she had been utterly devastated. She could not stop crying, not even long enough to phone in sick, to work. She was forced to email her boss, apologising for the short notice and pleading a sore throat and lost voice, for want of a better excuse for not phoning. She sat in the armchair, leaking hot, salt tears. Every time she thought she could not cry anymore, she cried some more. 

After several hours of convulsive sobbing, she felt weak, tremulous and completely drained. Her eyes were sore, her ribs ached and her cheeks burned. She tottered to the bathroom to splash cold water on her stinging face, bending over the basin and scooping the cooling liquid straight from the running tap. She held the hand towel to her eyes, to blot them dry, and looked at her ruined face in the bathroom mirror.

It was then that she saw it, hanging on the back of the bathroom door - Sherlock’s blue dressing gown. He had forgotten it. He had left it behind. She stumbled across the room, gathered the fabric in her hands and inhaled the achingly familiar scent of his aftershave, his hair, him. Lifting the garment off the hook, she hugged it to her and sank down to the floor, behind the door, beside herself once again.

For the next two days, Molly sat in her flat, her heart aching, barely able to move off the sofa. On the third day, she forced herself to go into the guest bedroom to strip the bed that Sherlock had occupied during his stay. Opening the door, she was surprised to find that he had stripped it himself, folded the duvet and left it and the pillows in a neat pile at the bottom of the bed. The used linen and his towel were stuffed into one of the pillow cases and left on the floor. 

Had he known how hard she would find this task of removing his presence from her home? 

Looking around the room, there was no physical evidence that he had ever been there – apart from his blue dressing gown, which she was now wearing, over her own. She was struck by the finality of the scene and it dawned on her that this was, indeed, like a death and she was in mourning. He was never coming back – and even if he did, it could never be the same again. They had shared a unique moment in time but that was all it was – just a moment.

Strangely, this realisation helped Molly to get back on track. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life pining for him. She had a bath, got dressed and spent the day cleaning the flat. She cleaned his room and washed his bedding. She took his dressing gown, folded it neatly into a plastic bag and put it in the back of her wardrobe. It would be there for him, if he ever came back to claim it.

On the fourth day, she went back to work. It was not hard to convince people she had been ill. She was pale and thin. Some of her colleagues were concerned she had come back too soon but she thanked them for their consideration and buried herself in her work.

When she missed her first period, she didn’t think much about it. She had lost quite a bit of weight and she knew that a low BMI could cause one’s periods to stop. At that point, it never occurred to her that she might be pregnant. But four weeks later, when her second period failed to put in an appearance, the idea suddenly struck her. 

When she thought about it, she realised there were other tell-tale signs – her breasts were a little swollen and tingly, though not exactly painful, and she had started to feel rather nauseous when she smelt certain aromas, notably coffee, tea and anything frying. Molly loved tea and could drink about ten cups a day, given the chance, but she found she could not face the thought of it, let alone the taste. This was the conclusive piece of evidence and the thing that prompted Molly to buy the predictor kit and take the test.

Confirmation of her new status of mother-to-be focused Molly’s mind and galvanised her into action. Walking from the bathroom to the sitting room, via the kitchen fridge, to pour a large glass of milk - the only beverage she could tolerate, at the moment - she sat in the armchair and began to make a list, a plan of action. 

She would make an appointment to see her GP and get registered with an obstetrician. She would tell her boss that she wanted to stay in work as far into the pregnancy as possible, so that she could take maximum maternity leave, after the birth. She would not tell anyone about the baby until after her twelve week scan, just in case anything happened in the meantime. She was fully aware that about twenty per cent of all pregnancies spontaneously aborted because the embryos were nonviable, often before the host mothers even knew they were carrying, so there was no point in telling anybody yet. 

Molly was a scientist. She knew that a foetus was the most efficient kind of parasite. Having taken up residence in the womb of its host and plugged itself in, via the placenta and umbilical cord, it would set about making changes to the mother’s physiology to maximise its own comfort and meet its own needs. This was not a symbiotic relationship. The baby took and the mother gave. 

She was aware that all the hormonal changes going on inside her body were triggered by the embryo sending chemical messages to her pituitary gland. As a woman of science, Molly marvelled at the efficiency with which this tiny creature had taken control. She was going to make the most of this experience, the whole process of procreation, on both an emotional and an intellectual level. She surprised herself when she realised that her approach to this situation was not unlike how Sherlock might have responded to it, had the roles been reversed. They were not dissimilar at all.

The next day, Molly went to see her boss. He listened to what she had to say and responded very professionally. He advised her that HR would do a risk assessment, if she intended to continue working up to the last possible moment, since there were some duties in a Pathology lab which might be potentially harmful to the foetus and she would have to change her working practices appropriately. 

He respected her wish for confidentiality and assured her that no one would hear anything from him. At the end of the interview, after going over all the practicalities, he stood up, leaned forward, putting his hand on hers and smiled broadly. 

‘Congratulations, Molly,' he said, warmly, and she smiled, too, probably for the first time in weeks, as she realised that she was very excited.

ooOoo


	2. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock went away, he took Molly's heart with him but he left something even more precious behind. Now Molly must face her own great adventure alone. This story is the sequel to 'Aftermath', so is Part 2 of my post-Reichenbach trilogy. Some mild swearing. I have employed a bit of poetic licence with Sherlock's family history, in Chapter 5. I hope no one minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer – I own only my original characters and my original plots. The rest belongs to ACD, MG, SM and ST.
> 
> This story has been revised.

Molly soon found that she might have to spill the beans a little earlier than expected, when her aversion to certain smells developed into nausea emesis gravidarum, an extreme form of 'morning sickness', round about the eighth week of her pregnancy.

Whilst riding home on the bus from a late shift, someone got on with a hamburger in a plastic carton and sat just in front of her. She was so over-come with the urge to vomit, she had to ring the bell and get off the bus at the next stop, where she proceeded to heave into the gutter. People walking by gave her a wide berth and she knew they probably thought she was drunk. She so wanted to proclaim to the world that she was not drunk but pregnant but she reminded herself that what these people thought of her really did not matter. She was unlikely to see any of them again.

She had never been squeamish about cutting up cadavers but she found herself having to rush to the 'Ladies' at the slightest whiff of bodily odours and, on a couple of occasions, she became quite faint and had to sit with her head between her knees until the colour returned to her cheeks. Her colleagues could not fail to notice these uncharacteristic episodes. Rumours would soon start to circulate, no doubt.

ooOoo

One lunchtime, towards the end of her ninth week of gestation, Molly spotted Maria, the medical photographer, sitting by herself in the staff canteen, and she decided it was time to put another part of her master plan into action.

'Do you mind if I join you?' she asked. Maria was a colleague but not really a friend, so Molly waited to be invited in.

'Of course not,' Maria smiled.

Molly sat down, took a deep breath and launched into her mission.

'Maria, I have something to tell you. I want you to know that I'm pregnant.'

Maria's mouth fell open then she broke into a broad smile.

'I knew it!' she exclaimed. 'Wow, Molly, that explains everything. Oh, my goodness! How wonderful! But I didn't even know you were with someone. Who's the lucky guy?'

Fortunately, Molly had anticipated this enquiry.

'I'm not with anyone, actually. I…'

But before Molly could complete her prepared explanation, Maria pre-empted her.

'Oh my God, you've had A.I! Wow, Molly, how marvellous! You know, I've thought about doing that so many times. I mean, none of us are getting any younger, are we? And sitting around waiting for Mr Right doesn't seem to be working. Gosh, you are so brave!'

Molly was about to correct her over-enthusiastic confidante when it suddenly occurred to her that this was the perfect cover story. Why hadn't she thought of it herself? She changed tack, accepted Maria's compliments on her 'out there-ness' and delivered her second revelation.

'Maria, I need to ask a big favour. I would really like you to be my birth partner.'

This actually did render the loquacious lady speechless - for at least two seconds.

'Oh, Molly, me? Are you sure? I mean, of course, I'd be honoured but, are you sure there's no one else you'd rather, like your sister, maybe? Have you got a sister?'

'Yes, Maria, I do have a sister but I really would like you to do it, for a very important reason.'

Molly paused to rally her resolve, then said,

'You are a medical photographer. You have photographed heart transplants, conjoined twin separations, all manner of medical procedures. I would really like you to film the birth.'  
Again, Molly had flummoxed her companion.

'I want a permanent record of the delivery, something tangible that I can keep, maybe show my child one day, when it's old enough.'

Maria sat dumb-founded for a further two heart beats then almost leapt out of her chair.

'Wow, Molly, I would be thrilled to film your baby's birth, I would be honoured and delighted! In fact,' she said, her professional mind jumping into gear, 'I would love to document the whole pregnancy. You know, take photographs of you through every stage, so you would have a complete account of the whole thing.'

This was more than Molly could have dreamed of and she was thrilled with the idea.

'Oh, Maria, thank you so much! I knew you were the right person to ask. But if we're going to record the whole thing, I have an appointment coming up that I need you to attend with me.'

Maria was all ears.

'Next week, I have my twelve week scan.'

Although Molly knew the exact date she conceived, protocol dictated that the pregnancy be dated from the first day of her last period so, officially, she was eleven weeks gone. So, this conversation could not have been more timely.

The women spent the rest of their lunch break discussing various ideas and options for the 'magnum opus' that would be the story of Molly's pregnancy. When they stood up, to return to work, Molly reminded Maria that no one else knew yet and that's how it must remain until she felt it was the right time. Maria mimed pulling a zip across her lips and winked at Molly. Another step in the plan of action had been achieved.

A week later, when Molly went for her first scan, Maria came too and videoed the whole process. The radiographer assumed they were a lesbian couple and treated Maria like the expectant father, which had her and Molly in fits of giggles for days afterwards.

The scan confirmed that everything was absolutely fine and the baby was developing normally. At the appropriate moment, the radiographer asked,  
'Would you like to know your baby's sex, ladies?'

'No!' Molly exclaimed, causing the other two women to stare at her.

'No,' she said, more levelly. 'I want it to be a surprise.'

She already had a mental image of her baby as a boy, for no good reason she could think of, but she really did not care which sex it was, just that it was healthy.  
Maria squeezed her hand, warmly.

'That's lovely,' the radiographer beamed. 'I always think it's a shame that people know in advance. It spoils the surprise. But I suppose I'm a bit old-fashioned.'

ooOoo

The following Saturday, armed with the print-out from her scan, Molly caught the train to Northampton. She needed to tell her mother that she was about to be a grandmother and it had to be done face to face. She was a little apprehensive about how her mother might take the news but she knew it was just a matter of time before it became obvious to everyone and she must break it to her family first.

Molly had been a daddy's girl, growing up. She shared a love of scientific inquiry with her dad and they had gone off to science fairs and museums and the like, most weekends, when he was alive. She was not that close to her mother, who had favoured her sister, she being more of a girlie girl than Molly. Her mother's reaction was pretty much as expected.

'Molly, I should have thought you would know better than to get yourself pregnant.'

'Mum, it is a physical impossibility to get your self pregnant. There has to be some outside agent involved,' Molly countered.

'Don't you get smart with me, my girl!' her mother snapped. 'You're supposed to be educated. What was the point of sending you to university? You might as well have gone to work in a shop. You're no better than these young girls around here, who think the world owes them a council flat and a load of benefits.'

'God, mother, don't be such a Daily Mail reader!' Molly retorted. 'Yes, I went to university and got well qualified so I could get a good job. And I have! I am well paid, I have my own flat. I still have these things, whether I'm pregnant or not.'

'And what about the father?' her mother snapped back. 'What does he have to say about it? And where is he? Why isn't he here? Is he too ashamed to show his face?'

Molly closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

'The baby's father and I are not together,' she replied. 'He lives abroad.'

'Oh, my god! He's a foreigner!' exclaimed Mrs Hooper. 'Came over here, got you pregnant and then buggered off home! What colour is this baby going to be?'

'Mother,' Molly said, quietly and calmly, 'the baby's father is not a foreigner - not that that would matter, anyway. He's English. And he had to go abroad for his work. He didn't want to go and would much rather have stayed here, but he had no choice in the matter. And though – again - it really does not matter at all, he is white. So, unless there are any recessive genes on our side of the family that we don't know about, this baby will be white, too. And, anyway, Mum, I'm not a teenager, I'm thirty-one. By the time you were my age, you had two children already.'

'Yes, but I was married. That's the difference,' her mother replied, tartly.

'Well, lucky you. Some of us are not so fortunate,' said Molly.

Travelling back on the train, that evening, having declined the invitation to stay over because she could not stand the recriminatory looks from her parent, Molly felt rather weepy. This was not surprising. She knew it was in part due to the hormonal effects of the pregnancy but crying in public was not something she wished to embrace, so she went to the toilet for a bit of a blub and felt much better afterwards.

ooOoo

As the weeks went by, Molly made further preparations for the arrival of her baby. She didn't want to get too carried away, buying baby things, since there was always the chance that something might go wrong and she would be left with a flatfull of baby stuff to mock her, but she started looking in charity shops for second-hand cots and clothes, reasoning that they didn't cost much, so she could always re-donate them, if things didn't go well.

She made a point of reading anything and everything she could get her hands on about foetal development, child birth and child development. She spent hours in the hospital library and on the Internet, reading all the latest research papers on the subject.

At home, in the evenings, Molly spent her time getting to know her unborn child.

She noted that Junior was most active in the evenings, especially if Molly took a bath. She had read that vision was one of the first senses to develop in the foetus and that the baby would be able to detect light, diffusing through her stomach wall when she was naked, so she often lay in the bath for up to an hour, giving her baby maximum light exposure. After her bath, she would sit in her armchair, listening to music and talking to the 'little parasite'. Mozart seemed to sooth the baby whereas Beethoven made it leap about and turn somersaults, swimming around in its private pool of amniotic fluid.

Molly often talked to him - or her - about Sherlock, about what a brave and clever man he was, how he had sacrificed everything to save his friends and keep them safe, how much he would love to meet his baby, some day. She wasn't sure how true the last bit was but she reasoned that any man would want to meet his child so why should Sherlock be any different?

Molly had not thought of any names for her baby, partly because of her superstition about tempting Fate, but mainly because she intended, once the baby was born, to tell Mycroft that he was an uncle and to ask if there were any family names that it might be appropriate for the baby to be given. She felt that this was the closest she could get to giving Sherlock a hand in the naming of his child.

Thinking about Sherlock made Molly sad. She wondered where he was, what he was doing and how much danger he was in. Was he lonely? Was he hurt? Did he ever think of her? She knew he was determined to destroy every last vestige of Moriarty's organisation, in order to remove the death treats that the insane master criminal had put on the heads of his friends. She also knew that, until he achieved this – if he ever did – he would remain 'dead' to the world. This thought made her want to cry but a miserable mother usually made for a miserable baby so she pulled herself together and got on with her life.

ooOoo


	3. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock went away, he took Molly's heart with him but he left something even more precious behind. Now Molly must face her own great adventure alone. This story is the sequel to 'Aftermath', so is Part 2 of my post-Reichenbach trilogy. Some mild swearing. I have employed a bit of poetic licence with Sherlock's family history, in Chapter 5. I hope no one minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer – I own nothing but my original characters and my original plots. the rest belongs to ACD, MG, SM and ST.
> 
> This story has been revised.

Molly had not seen or heard from any of Sherlock's friends, or his brother Mycroft, since the day of the funeral, nor did she expect to, since the only thing they all had in common was Sherlock. However, one afternoon, towards the end of her second trimester, she was coming down in the lift from the path lab when it stopped at the floor below, the door opened and John Watson stepped in.

‘Molly!’ he declared. ‘What a lovely surprise! And, wow, look at you! I had no idea!’ 

He clasped her by the shoulders and gave her a warm peck on each cheek. 

‘When’s the baby due? And who’s the daddy?’

Molly cleverly side-stepped the second half of this question by launching into a very technical account of the current status of her pregnancy then said,  
‘What about you, John? How are things with you…now?’

Dropping his gaze, momentarily, in acknowledgement of the inferred reference to Sherlock’s tragic demise, John Watson grinned broadly and explained that he just dropped in to see Mike Stanford because he had some news of his own. 

‘I’ve met someone, Molly. We’re getting engaged. I just came by to invite Stamford to the party, next Saturday. Please say you’ll come, too? Mrs Hudson will be there and Greg Lestrade. Even Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson are coming. It will be nice to get the old crowd back together again. I haven’t really seen any of them since….well, you know, since….Anyway, please come and bring along your partner. It will be great to meet him.’

Molly thanked him for the invitation and he gave her the address. It was not 221B Baker Street. John had moved out of there as soon as he could find an alternative. Too many memories, he admitted. They bid one another goodbye, outside the main door to St Bart’s and Molly assured Dr Watson that she would come to the party, though afterwards, left to her own thoughts, she wondered how difficult it would be to keep up the pretence that Sherlock was dead, faced with all the people who knew him best – the very people, in fact, for whom he had made the great sacrifice of faking his own death and going into self-imposed exile. However, she really wanted to see the old faces again – even Donovan and Anderson, perhaps – so she decided she would go.

As it turned out, it was rather a pleasant social occasion. When Molly arrived, everyone greeted her warmly. They all expressed surprise and delight that she was expecting a happy event and, once everyone had exchanged pleasantries and introductions, she sat with Mrs Hudson for a long while, talking about babies. Mrs H had no children of her own, which was probably why she had unofficially adopted Sherlock and John, but she had nieces and nephews and even great ones, too, so she had lots of baby anecdotes to share.

John’s fiancée, Mary, seemed really nice and, seeing them together, it was obvious that they were truly in love. Molly was pleased that John had found someone who clearly made him happy. It must have helped him deal with the loss of his best friend.

Inevitably, the conversation came round to Sherlock. Unbeknown to Molly - and probably facilitated by Mycroft - Moriarty’s deception had been exposed and the ‘Rich Brook’ revelations discredited. Lestrade had been reinstated as a DI and Sherlock’s name had been cleared. Why hadn’t anyone thought to tell her? she wondered. But she had been so out of the loop for the last seven months. Sherlock was the glue that held this group of people together. Without him, they had drifted apart.

Of course, the revelations about Moriarty’s guilt and Sherlock’s innocence led them all to speculate as to why he had insisted it was all true and jumped off the roof, but it was agreed that he had been under a huge amount of stress at the time and, perhaps, he believed there was no other way out.

It was quite cathartic, talking about Sherlock. Even Donovan agreed, grudgingly, that he was good at what he did - Anderson abstained from commenting. John became rather pensive and disappeared into the kitchen, which is where Molly found him, when she went to say goodbye.

‘I’m a bit tired, John,’ she explained. ‘Carrying all this extra weight around really takes it out of you!’

‘Well, I’m very grateful to you for coming, Molly. I really wanted everyone to meet Mary. I don’t know where I would be now, without her,’ John confided, looking close to tears.  
Molly gave him a hug. 

‘You know, John, Sherlock would be pleased that you’ve found someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. And, let’s face it, I don’t think you could have made it this far in any relationship with him around. He was rather ‘Death to Girlfriends’, wasn’t he?’

John had to laugh at that. 

‘God, you are so right, Molly. He could kill passion with a glance. Anyway, please keep in touch and let us know when that baby arrives. And, when we set a date for the wedding, you will definitely be on the VIP guest list.’ 

He stepped forward and hugged her close, just as the baby let loose with a might kick, which he felt, even through his and Molly’s clothing.

‘Good God, what have you got in there, a horse?’ John exclaimed, laughing.

‘It’s either the Karate Kid or Buckaroo, I’m not sure which,’ Molly replied. ‘But I’ll keep you posted!’ 

Molly took her leave, silently marvelling that no one had even asked about the father of her baby. She assumed Mike Stanford had probably filled them in on the ‘A.I.’ story and she said a heart-felt ‘thank you’ for Maria and her fertile imagination.

ooOoo


	4. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock went away, he took Molly's heart with him but he left something even more precious behind. Now Molly must face her own great adventure alone. This story is the sequel to 'Aftermath', so is Part 2 of my post-Reichenbach trilogy. Some mild swearing. I have employed a bit of poetic licence with Sherlock's family history, in Chapter 5. I hope no one minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer – I own nothing but my original characters and my original plots. the rest belongs to ACD, MG, SM and ST.
> 
> This story has been revised.

At work, Molly's duties had changed considerably as the pregnancy progressed. Because of the risk of exposure to bodily fluids, and despite the very high levels of infection control practiced in the Pathology Department, HR had ruled that Molly should have more of a desk job. She mostly spent her time doing library and Internet research for other members of the team, which enabled her to carry out her own research, on anything baby-related. Very occasionally, she would be asked to double check some test results or findings of another team member, so long as bodily fluids were not involved.

Such was the case, one day towards the end of her thirty-sixth week, when she was asked to take a look at some non-biological trace evidence found at a murder scene. She had been standing at her bench, peering into the lenses of a microscope, at various prepared slides, for a couple of hours. She stood up straight and arched her spine, rubbing her lower back.

'You OK, Molly?' asked a colleague, working on the next bench.

'Yes, fine,' she smiled. 'I must have slept a bit awkwardly last night. I woke up this morning with awful back pain. I'll be OK.'

Half an hour later, she breathed a rather irritated sigh. At this late stage in her pregnancy, her womb and its occupant took up rather a lot of space inside her abdomen, so her bladder had been squashed, making it necessary to spend a penny rather frequently and rather urgently. She felt the need to go, now.

Taking full advantage of the more generous dimensions of the Disabled toilet, Molly pulled down her pants and eased herself onto the seat. Her mouth then formed a startled 'O' shape, when she glanced down and saw a red stain on the gusset of her pants.

'Oh, God!' she said, out loud, 'I'm spotting!'

She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself, then took out her mobile and rang the number of her obstetrician. The clinic nurse answered on the fourth ring. Molly explained the situation.

'Do you have any other indications that you might be in labour?' the lady asked.

'Well, I have had lower back pain since I got up this morning and I've had rather more Braxton Hicks than usual,' she replied. 'But this is only my thirty-sixth week.'

'It's your thirty-eighth week, Dr Hooper,' the nurse corrected.

'Yes, yes, thirty-eighth week.'

In the heat of the moment, Molly had forgotten to make the adjustment between the 'official' date of conception – the first day of her last period– and what she knew to be the actual date - the night before Sherlock left - which was two weeks later.

'Well, you know, babies don't always go by the calendar. They come when they're ready and I think yours is!' the nurse replied.

'So what should I do next?' Molly asked, in full action mode, now. The nurse assured her that there was no need to rush. She advised her to time the intervals between her contractions and, when they got to fifteen minutes apart, come into hospital but, in the meantime, to just carry on as normal but not to do anything too strenuous.

'Bloody typical!' she thought, 'Two weeks early! Trust Sherlock's baby to set its own agenda.'

She clicked off the call and sent a text to Maria. It read:

Showtime!

ooOoo

Maria arrived, breathless, about ten minutes later to find Molly sitting in her ergonomically designed computer chair, sipping a glass of water.

'Oh!' she said, a little disappointed. 'I thought you'd be rolling around on the floor, yelling 'The baby's coming! The baby's coming!' Not sitting there, like you're waiting for a bus.'

'Only in the movies, Maria. Real life is not nearly so dramatic.'

Molly told Maria what the nurse had advised.

'The thing is, I don't have my hospital bag here.'

She had packed her hospital bag weeks ago and it was sitting just inside the door to her flat, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice.

'If I give you my keys, could you please go and fetch it for me?'

'Yes, but you must promise me you won't have that baby before I get back', Maria replied.

'Girl Guide's honour,' Molly assured her.

By the time Maria returned, things had progressed. The contractions were now twenty minutes apart and getting a bit more uncomfortable. Molly had moved to the staff lounge and was standing by the sink unit, bending over the counter top and practicing her breathing. She felt remarkably calm. Her anti-natal classes were proving their worth, as she recognised each new sensation as it occurred. Maria was just about to settle herself on the sofa when Molly gave a sudden gasp, and looked down at the floor, at a small pool of liquid that was spreading round her feet.

'Bloody hell, Maria, my waters have broken,' she declared.

That was the cue for Action Stations. Molly knew, once the waters broke, labour would normally progress apace, so it was time to go. Maria called a taxi, gathered up her camera bag and Molly's case and they were on their way to the specialist Maternity Unit.

ooOoo

The next few hours went by in a blur.

Molly was admitted to the labour ward, examined and advised that her cervix was five centimetres dilated. Her labour was well progressed. She was prepped and changed into a hospital gown and advised to stay on the bed. But her body was telling her to pace - so she paced, up and down the room, and round and round the bed, stopping - with gradually increasing frequency - to rest her hands on the foot bar of the bed and bend forward, riding out each contraction, as it came and went.

Maria got her cameras ready and started to film.

As the contractions became more frequent and more intense, Molly's consciousness moved onto a different plain. She was barely aware of anything going on around her. At varying intervals, a midwife came in, examined her and gave a progress report but she hardly took any of it in. She was entirely in tune with the physiological changes going on inside her own body and she responded instinctively to these changes.

From time to time, she would mumble encouraging words to herself and to the baby, in a private dialogue between herself and her unborn child. Four hours in, she was moved from the Progress Suite to the Birthing Suite and things began in earnest. She still wanted to pace but the midwife was insistent that she lay on the bed, so she had to find the position that felt right to her. This turned out to be on her side, with two pillows between her knees.

Molly had made a commitment, early in her pregnancy, to have a natural birth. This was not as common now as in previous eras but she had read that babies born in drug-free labour were more alert and fed better in the first few days post-partum and, given Sherlock's history of drug abuse, she didn't want to risk any potential propensity that might be genetically inherent in her child by exposure to awareness-altering drugs, even at this early stage in its life. So, in compliance with her wishes, she was given just the gas and air, to help manage the pain.

Time ticked by.

The contractions were becoming much stronger now and Molly felt an irresistible urge to bear down hard but the midwife instructed her to resist these urges and to pant, because she wasn't quite fully dilated. Acting on an impulse, Molly rolled onto her elbows and knees, with her bottom in the air, which seemed to slow things down a little and give her cervix the time it needed to complete its dilation.

All the while, Maria was doing a very professional job of recording the event. As a highly regarded medical photographer, she was well accustomed to working in this type of environment, getting perfect shots from optimum vantage points whilst keeping well out of the way of the health care professionals, so as not to impede them in their work.  
Molly was beginning to get agitated. She wanted so much to push but the midwife was still saying it wasn't time until, at long last, the woman said,  
'OK, Molly. Next contraction, I want you to push.'

This was the business end of the process and the time when one learned that it was not called labour for nothing. Molly hooked her hands behind her knees and, when it felt right, she took a deep breath, tucked her chin to her chest and pushed as hard and as long as she could. She tried not to make any vocal sounds, as she'd read that this was wasted breath and reduced the efficiency of the bearing down but she also knew that holding her breath was not good either so a balance had to be struck. She was a scientist, applying her knowledge to the task in hand.

In the short breaks between pushing, Molly lay on her side with her eyes closed, crooning to herself, taking sips through a straw from a glass of iced water held by a nurse, marshalling her strength for the next onslaught. She lost count of the number of times she bore down but she was becoming very tired and beginning to see red flashes in her vision, which she knew were warning signs of raised blood pressure. She began to feel she couldn't take much more of the straining. She had no energy left. She had used up every ounce.

Then she heard the midwife say,

'Next time, Molly, we need a big push! Baby's nearly here.'

'I can't, she whispered, 'I can't do this any more.'

'Yes, you can! You've done brilliantly this far. You're nearly there, Molly, just a couple more pushes and we're there!'

Molly felt the next contraction begin to build, felt the pain engulfing her. She braced herself for one more push and began to bear down…

'Molly, pant, now! Pant!' The midwife spoke urgently.

Molly converted the push into panting and she felt the pressure in her pelvis suddenly reduce.

'The head is here, Molly, your baby's head is born. One more push and you'll have your baby!'

Molly could feel the next contraction coming and she rallied one final time. The result was almost instantaneous. She began to bear down and she felt the baby slip from her like a fish over a weir…

'It's a boy, Molly. You have a beautiful baby boy!'

Molly heard him cry out, just once, and then go quiet.

'Let me see him…please…give him to me….' she gasped, as she rolled onto her back and held out her arms. The midwife scooped the baby up from between Molly's knees and placed him, face down on her chest, naked and bloodied and slippery as an eel, with a damp shock of thick black hair, plastered to his scalp. Molly placed her hands on him and looked into his wide open eyes. They were almond shaped and sea-green.

They were Sherlock's eyes.

ooOoo


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock went away, he took Molly's heart with him but he left something even more precious behind. Now Molly must face her own great adventure alone. This story is the sequel to 'Aftermath', so is Part 2 of my post-Reichenbach trilogy. Some mild swearing. I have employed a bit of poetic licence with Sherlock's family history, in Chapter 5. I hope no one minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer – I own nothing but my original characters and original plots. The rest belongs to ACD, SM, MG and ST.
> 
> This story has been revised.

The next morning, after spending the night in the crèche, so that Molly could rest, Baby Hooper, as his i.d. bands stated, was brought back to his mother. He had been weighed and measured, bathed and dressed and placed in a little plastic crib on wheels. He had been given glucose and water but nothing more, so he was ready for his first feed. The specialist nurse guided Molly through her first breast feed, the burping and the nappy changing, and then left her and her baby alone together.

The new mother sat in the nursing chair, next to her bed, cradling her son in her arms and gazing in awe at his delicate features. Could this be real? It hardly seemed possible that, from the frantic need of that desperate night all those months ago, she and Sherlock had made this exquisite being. Yet here he was, this miracle baby, this gift from nature, her serendipity.

A light knock at the door roused her from her reverie. She looked up to see John Watson and Mary walking in, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Maria had performed her duties well, phoning around all the people on the list that Molly had prepared in advance, to advise each of them, as Molly had instructed. John came over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then stood beside her, gazing at the serene expression of the sleeping baby.

'Would you like to hold him, John?' Molly asked.

'Well, it's been a while since I did any paediatrics so I suppose a bit of practice wouldn't go amiss,' John replied, with a grin. Molly passed the swaddled infant to him and he stood, rocking, with a huge smile on his face. Molly climbed back onto the bed and Mary took the chair.  
'Have you thought what you might call him?' Mary asked.

 

'No, not yet. I have a few ideas but I want to think about it a bit more, decide what suits him best. I have six weeks to register him,' she replied.

They chatted for around fifteen minutes, whilst John and Mary took turns to hold the baby, then they popped him back in his crib and took their leave, so that Molly could rest. However, they had barely been gone five minutes when there was another, sharper knock at the door and it opened to admit a tall, thin gentleman, in a three piece suit, carrying a furled black umbrella.

Molly had been dozing but her eyes fluttered open as Mycroft Holmes walked toward the bed. He stopped about three feet away, glancing from Molly to the crib and back to Molly before he spoke.

'Miss Hooper, your messenger asked me to come here to see you this afternoon but I must confess my curiosity got the better of me so, I regret, I am a little early. I trust this is not inconvenient.'

'Well, it could have been a bit awkward. John Watson has only just left,' Molly replied.

'And why might that have been awkward?' Mycroft enquired, fixing her with an intimidating glare.

Molly had thought long and hard about how she would like this conversation to go. She was glad that she had rehearsed it in her head. She could deliver her lines like the prepared speech it was.

'Mycroft, this is my baby. He's also your nephew. Sherlock is his father.'

ooOoo

Mycroft stood leaning on his umbrella, maintaining a bland facial expression, and did not speak. Molly took a breath and went on.

'I appreciate that you may require some proof that this is Sherlock's baby so I asked the nursing staff to get me a DNA collection kit, to take a sample of his saliva.'

Molly looked towards a sealed vacuum pack on top of her bedside cabinet.

'You can take the sample with you and arrange your own paternity test.'

Mycroft shifted his position, processing this information, then gave a brief nod.

'Thank you, Miss Hooper. I am impressed by your pragmatism. May I collect the sample now?'

'Be my guest,' Molly replied.

Mycroft's brow furrowed and, for a brief moment, he looked distinctly flustered, but recovered quickly.

'Miss Hooper, I would be grateful if you would ask one of the medical staff to collect the sample and I will take it with me, now.'

Molly pressed the call button and, an awkward few minutes later, a member of staff came in. She explained to the nurse what was required and the lady obliged by, quickly and efficiently, collecting a sample of the baby's saliva and sealing it in the tube provided. The poor woman was in a bit of a quandary as to whom to give the tube but Mycroft held out his hand and Molly nodded, so she gave it to him and excused herself from the room.

Mycroft looked at the tube in his hand, then over at the still-sleeping babe, and back to Molly then bowed his head, smiled thinly, turned and left. Molly relaxed back on her pillows, relieved that the ordeal was over, though it was nothing less than she had expected. But it did leave her wondering how Sherlock's brother would react when the test did, in fact, prove positive.

Two days later, she got her answer. She had just finished feeding and changing Baby Hooper when a nurse came to the door and announced that she had a visitor. Molly gave her the nod to admit them. It was a very different Mycroft who came through the door, this time.

He came in looking rather ruffled. He was trying, without success, to control a very powerful emotion. He looked at Molly, seated in the nursing chair, holding her baby, walked straight over to her, knelt on one knee and put a slightly trembling hand on the baby's head. Molly was so taken aback, she couldn't speak. They were, all three, frozen in that tableau for a long moment, then Mycroft stood, stepped back and wiped his hand across his brow in a very uncharacteristic gesture. Molly found her voice first.

'Mycroft, please sit down.'

He looked around for a chair, saw one against the wall and drew it forward, to sit opposite her.

'Miss Hooper….'he began and then seemed to lose his concentration and falter.

'Molly. Please, call me Molly.' She felt quite moved by Mycroft's obvious discomfiture.

'Molly,' he began again, 'as I am sure you have guessed, the paternity test proved positive….'

'No, Mycroft,' she interrupted, quite calmly, 'I didn't need to guess. I know who the father of my baby is.'

Mycroft then looked even more flustered.

'I am so sorry Miss….Molly, I mean Molly. I did not intend in any way to impugn your virtue. Please, I do apologise!'

Molly could not help herself. She began to giggle but quickly regained control and said,

'Mycroft, I appreciate this is a difficult situation. I know what you were trying to say.' 

She paused, smiled and, easing herself to her feet with one hand on the arm of the chair, she stepped forward, placed the baby in Mycroft's startled arms and sat down again.  
At first, he just stared at the little creature, as though it were about to explode, but then he seemed to relax and settled into a more comfortable position, gazing into his nephew's wide-awake eyes, with a strange smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

'He looks just like Sherlock at this age, all hair and eyes. We have photographs at home that could be him!'

This was a side to Mycroft Holmes that Molly could never have imagined existed and she was utterly charmed. She suddenly understood that he really had been concerned about his brother, for all these years, and had perhaps not been entirely the rabid control freak that Sherlock had made him out to be. It was a revelation.

Mycroft was completely engrossed in the baby. He began to rock, very gently, from side to side as he studied every pore of the child's face. Molly didn't know much about Sherlock's up-bringing but, from her knowledge of the Holmes brothers, she had surmised that theirs had not been a particularly loving home. Taking into account the seven year age difference between them, she imagined that the older brother had been obliged to assume quite a parental role for his younger sibling from a very early age.

In many ways, this explained much about their fraught relationship. It seemed almost inevitable that Sherlock would become the perennial stroppy teenager, who thought he knew it all, to Mycroft's disapproving father figure, who had forgotten what it was like to be young. A psychoanalyst could make a whole career out of unravelling the two of them, she thought.

'You have the magic touch,' Molly said, breaking the comfortable silence. The baby was sound asleep. Mycroft looked up, smiling rather sheepishly – a mixture of pleasure at the compliment and embarrassment at having revealed his softer side.

'What have you named him?' he asked.

'I haven't, yet. I wanted to talk to you first,' Molly replied.

'Yes,' responded Mycroft, 'we do have rather a lot to talk about, don't we.' It was a statement, rather than a question.

He stood up and placed the baby in the little crib, making sure to lay him on his side and cover him over with the thermal blanket. Then he turned to Molly and said,

'Do you mind if I remove my jacket? It is rather warm in here.'

Molly gave her consent, graciously, marvelling at the complex social rules that governed this man's everyday life. Mycroft took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair before sitting down again and folding his hands in his lap. He looked at Molly, inviting her to speak first.

'I would like to call him William, after my dad, and his surname will be Hooper-Holmes. But I wondered if there was a particular family name that you thought Sherlock might like him to have.' Molly paused.

Mycroft steepled his fingers below his chin, in a gesture so painfully reminiscent of Sherlock himself. He seemed to be giving the matter very careful consideration. Then he took a breath and replied,

'Our mother's maiden name was Vernet but she was a member of the Howard family, through the distaff line.'  
He looked at Molly as though this should mean something to her but other than the fact that, if one were a member of a family one would expect to share the same surname, she could not see the significance of his remark. He saw her confusion and elucidated.

'Through her mother – our grandmother – Violet Vernet was a descendent of the Howard family, who made a practice of sacrificing their daughters to the Tudor court, in the 16th Century, in exchange for wealth and power,' he explained. 'She was distantly related to Kathryn Howard, the fifth wife of Henry VIII, and, of course, to Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife, who was Kathryn's cousin. Both ladies, sadly, met a very grim and untimely end.'

Molly was stunned by this revelation. She had been vaguely aware that Sherlock was 'connected' but she had no idea how well. But she quickly regained her composure.  
'William Howard Hooper-Holmes,' she ran it by them both. 'Quite a lot of 'H's but it does have a certain ring to it,' she concluded. 'And Howard sounds like a given name as well as a surname so, yes, I like it'. 

She nodded, appreciatively. So that was settled.

'Now, Miss…I…I mean Molly, if you wish to register Sherlock as William's father, since he is officially deceased, you will need this.'  
He reached round into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a folded piece of A4 paper, handing it across to her. She opened it. It was the Paternity Test Report. She read it through.

'Ninety-eight per cent?' she queried, with a rising intonation.

'Yes, well, I did not have a sample of Sherlock's genetic material to hand so I submitted my own for the test. As we both know, I am not this baby's father. Consequently, the match was not quite perfect but, as – again - both you and I know, it is near enough. The registrar will accept it as proof of paternity. But, if you encounter any difficulties, please let me know and I will deal with it.'

He nodded, confidently. Molly knew that he was very good at dealing with things.

'Now, Mycroft, I know that you have some means of communicating with Sherlock but I must ask you not to tell him about William. I'm worried that, if he knew about him, he would want to come back and, even if he didn't want to come back, it might be very distracting for him and could make him careless, perhaps put him in danger.' She looked to Mycroft for a response.

He inspected his hands, now resting on his knees.

'I agree entirely that it would be better by far, for him, if he were kept in the dark about this. He really cannot return yet. It would be far too dangerous. You can rest assured that I will not burden him with this knowledge.'

Molly was quite amazed at how well this conversation was going. They had agreed on two out of two points, so far.

'Now, M…Molly, we really need to discuss your domestic arrangements,' he began. 

She fixed him with a rather wary look. 

'Please don't be alarmed. And please be assured that I only have yours and your baby's best interests in mind. You live alone. You have no family nearby, in fact you have had no visits from any family members since the child was born…'

'Are you spying on me, Mycroft?' Molly was mortified.

He inclined his head to the side and bit his upper lip, exhaled sharply, then said,

'I do have the hospital under surveillance, yes. Even before the test result came in, I was fairly confident that Sherlock was your baby's father and so his and your safety was paramount.' 

He paused, to collect himself. Molly just stared at him, dumbfounded. He went on,

'This child is not only Sherlock's heir, he is my heir, too. He is very important, very dear to me.' 

Molly could see what a strain it was on this normally so inscrutable man to bare his soul in this way and she was moved that he was showing her his vulnerability. She conceded the point with a small nod and a shrug.

'My family are coming down on Saturday,' she explained. 'My mother and my sister both work during the week.'

'I do appreciate their circumstances, Molly.'

There, he had said it, without a hesitation, at last!

'It is exactly for this reason that I would like to engage a neonatal nurse to help you take care of William…just for a few weeks, perhaps,' he added as he saw the alarm in her eyes, again. 'Please allow me to do this for you.'

He was pleading, now. Mycroft Holmes was pleading with her!

She knew he was right, of course. Here in the Mother and Baby Unit, everything was ergonomically designed to facilitate all the tasks involved in baby care to maximum efficiency. And there was always someone around to give advice or lend a hand. Once she left here, in a day or two, she would be on her own and the prospect was rather daunting. She looked at Mycroft. He was waiting for her to complete her internal dialogue.

'OK,' she agreed. 'But just for a month, yes?'

'For as long or as short a time as you feel necessary,' he assured her.

'Now, can we talk about your apartment…?'

The startled look reappeared. Mycroft opened his hands in an imploring gesture.

'You live on the second floor of a building with no lift AND you have no access to a garden,' he stated the obvious. 'Carrying a baby, a pushchair, shopping and all the other things that one must carry up and down those stairs is going to make your life very difficult, is it not?'

He spoke gently and rationally and she knew he was right, yet again, but her flat was her home and she loved it.

'I have taken the liberty of making an offer on a very comfortable garden flat, not ten minutes' walk from St Bart's. It would be extremely convenient for your work and it has an entry phone system and CCTV security surveillance. They have agreed to take it off the market until you have had the opportunity to view it. If you don't like it, Molly, I will withdraw the offer and we can look elsewhere. But you do need a ground floor flat and you do need a garden. Children need outdoor space and, believe me, if your child is anything like his father, he will need it more than most. We grew up in a very large house but two consecutive rainy days would have Sherlock bouncing off the walls. I remember it well.'

This had been quite a long speech. Mycroft had kept talking so as not to give Molly the opportunity to raise any objections until he had made all his points. He was very good at that, as well.

'But I own my flat,' she said, a little plaintively.

'You part own it, Molly. It's a shared ownership and you own fifty per cent – which is admirable for a single woman of your age, living in London.' He smiled, kindly. 'You would not have to sell your property. You could let it out and it would provide you with an income. I would buy the new flat outright and the freehold would be in your name. You would be rent and mortgage free.' He paused, again, for her to consider.

'Let me think about it, please, Mycroft,' she asked.

'Will you at least go and take a look?' he implored.

After a small hesitation, she nodded and he breathed a sigh of relief.

At this point, a gentle knock at the door announced the arrival of the tea trolley. The great English tradition of afternoon tea was still observed in this modern institution. The matronly care assistant poked her head round the door and Mycroft jumped to his feet, feeling rather exposed, having been caught without his jacket.

'Oh, you sit yourself down, dearie,' the lady chided. 'I just wondered if you wanted a cup of tea, Mum. And what about you, Dad? Would you like a cuppa?'

Molly tried not to smile. She doubted that anyone had ever called Mycroft 'dearie' in his life, let alone 'Dad'.

'Just a fresh jug of water for me, thank you. This one is nearly empty,' said Molly and, making an executive decision, she added, 'I think Uncle Mycroft would love a cup of tea.' She looked to him for acquiescence and he nodded, politely.

The lady withdrew her head and reappeared a moment later with a fresh water jug and a cup and saucer, in that strange green colour that all institutions within the British public sector seemed to favour. She placed the jug on the bedside cabinet and took up the empty one, then walked around the bed and placed the cup of what could only be described as 'builder's' tea into Mycroft's outstretched hand. She then patted him, kindly, on the shoulder and left. Molly was impressed with his self-control. He barely showed any indignation at all. He took one sip of the tea, considered his options and decided to drink it, anyway.

'There are a couple more topics I would like to deal with, if you are not too tired, Molly,' he resumed.

'No, I'm fine,' she replied, 'but I think I will lie down, if that's OK.'

'Of course,' he declared, standing up and offering his hand, to assist her over to the bed. Once she was settled, with a large glass of water in her hand, he raised the next subject.  
'If my brother were here, he would, of course, contribute to the cost of caring for his son. As he is not, I will assume this responsibility on his behalf. I have taken yet another liberty, I fear, and arranged for a sum of money to be deposited, on a regular monthly basis, into your current account.'

He looked at her, to see how she was receiving this news. He was quite relieved to see that she seemed to have given up objecting. So he went on.

'Should this sum prove insufficient, I trust that you would tell me, so that I may rectify the situation.' He leaned forward, pleading again. She gave a resigned nod.

He had only one more request but he feared that this might be the sticking point.

'I would very much like to put William down for Harrow.'

'Sorry?' Molly asked, genuinely confused.

'I would like to put his name down for Harrow School. I am an Old Etonian, needless to say, but Mummy felt that Harrow would be better suited to Sherlock's temperament and she was quite right, of course. So, it is only fitting that William should go to his father's old school. And it goes without saying that I would cover the fees.'

'But, Mycroft, he's not even a day old!' Molly declared. 'And isn't Harrow a boarding school?'

'It is, indeed a boarding school, one of the finest, and it is never too early to put one's child's name down for a good school,' he countered.

'Look, I do appreciate what you are doing and I am very grateful, believe me, but I really could never send my child to boarding school.'

Molly had known several ex-boarding school pupils at University and they all seemed a bit damaged, in some way, and spoke about their house masters and matrons and the other kids in their houses more than they did their actual parents and siblings. She did not want this for her child. Mycroft could see that he had hit an immoveable object, with this one. He sat back and frowned, momentarily, then rallied.

'What about Westminster? It's a good school and a day school. He could still live at home. And he wouldn't go until he was thirteen, anyway.'  
Surely this was a reasonable compromise?

'Alright, I can see that this is really important to you so I will agree to you putting him down for Westminster,' Molly conceded, stalling for time when she could table some realistic objections.

Mycroft leant forward, with his hands on his knees and breathed a sigh of relief.

'I fear that I have tired you, Molly,' he observed, 'and you need to rest so I will not disturb you further, today.'

He stood to put on his jacket.

'There is just one thing I would like to say,' Molly put in, causing him to pause.

'I'm going to tell Sherlock's friends that William is his baby, as soon as I can gather them all together. And I want to ask John Watson, Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to be his god parents. I'd like them to be part of William's life.'

Mycroft pursed his lips and smoothed back his hair. He walked over to the bed and took Molly's hand.

'I can have no objection to my brother's friends being god parents to his son but how will you explain William's paternity?' 

He looked concerned. The dates just did not fit.

'Don't worry,' she replied, 'I have a very good cover story.'

Mycroft was not so sure but he patted her hand, smiled and took his leave.

ooOoo


	6. Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock went away, he took Molly's heart with him but he left something even more precious behind. Now Molly must face her own great adventure alone. This story is the sequel to 'Aftermath', so is Part 2 of my post-Reichenbach trilogy. Some mild swearing. I have employed a bit of poetic licence with Sherlock's family history, in Chapter 5. I hope no one minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer – I own nothing but my original characters and original plots. The rest belongs to ACD, SM, MG and ST.
> 
> This story has been revised.

Molly spent three days in the Mother and Baby Unit, a luxury which she would appreciate in the days, weeks and months to come. She welcomed the opportunity to focus entirely on the needs of her baby, without having to worry about mundane things, like keeping house, cooking meals or working for a living. During this time, she and William fell into a comfortable routine of feeding, changing, playing and sleeping.

The feeding routine was dictated by William. He would wake up and begin to make little sounds which told Molly that he was hungry. She would begin her infection control routine, cleaning her nipples to make sure they were free from harmful bacteria. As she did this, she talked to William, answering his grunts and squeaks, just like a normal conversation. Molly found that the little sounds he made stimulated her lactation. By the time he was fully awake and ready to eat, she was ready to feed him.

On the third day, Molly noticed that when she reached down into the crib to pick him up, William hunched his shoulders in preparation for the lift. She found this quite amazing. This little creature had spent almost nine months entirely supported in an aquatic environment, cushioned from the full effects of gravity but, in such a short time, he had begun to find ways of dealing with it.

Molly had read so much about early child development and here was the living proof that babies are consummate adaptive organisms, hardwired to react and assimilate. She felt privileged to be able to witness this process first hand. And every baby was different. The nurses all commented that William was a 'placid' baby but Molly knew this was a misconception. William was a thinker, just like his dad.

On the morning of the fourth day, it was time to go home. Mycroft had engaged a specialist neonatal nurse, Caroline, whom he had brought to the Unit the day before, for Molly's approval. They chatted for a few minutes, whilst Mycroft took phone calls in the en suite bathroom. The two young women seemed to be on the same wave length. Caroline gave assurances that Molly would be calling the shots and the nurse would be there for back up and support, not to take over. Molly thought Mycroft had made a good choice - something else he was good at.

The next day, Caroline arrived at the Neo-natal Unit accompanied by Anthea, Mycroft's PA, and brought with her a state-of-the-art baby carrier cum car seat. Molly had fed and burped William and dressed him in his 'going away' outfit – a beautiful red all-in-one suit, lined in soft fur fabric, with little mittens attached – a present from Maria. It suited his pale skin and dark hair colouring so well.

Molly popped William into the baby carrier, checked she had packed everything and said thank you and goodbye to the hospital staff. She left behind the flowers that John and Mary had brought. They would be used to brighten up the reception area of the Unit. Stepping outside for the first time in nearly a week was a bit of a shock to Molly's system and she was very glad of the luxury car and the willing assistants, all courtesy of Mycroft.

Back at her building, the chauffeur carried her case up the stairs, Caroline carried William and Andrea assisted her. Molly had to acknowledge that Mycroft had been right again. This was not an ideal situation for a single mum and her child. She resolved to go and view the garden flat as soon as possible.

ooOoo

Two weeks later, Molly was waiting, on tenterhooks, in her sitting room for her guests to arrive. She had invited John and Mary, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade over to 'wet the baby's head', as her mother would say. She was looking forward to seeing them all and showing William off but not to the real purpose of the gathering.

Caroline had the afternoon off, which suited Molly fine because she didn't have to explain how she could afford a live-in nanny before she had revealed William's true paternity. But before she left, Caroline had been out and bought cake and biscuits, and a bottle of reasonably priced champagne. Molly had laid these out in the kitchen, set out the good china and tidied up a bit. The flat looked presentable.

As she sat on the sofa, rehearsing her lines, the doorbell rang. It was John, Mary and Mrs H. They were all smiles and hugs and kisses for the first couple of minutes then everyone found a seat.

'OK,' said John, 'where is the little beastie, then?'

'Just having his afternoon nap,' replied Molly. 'He is a creature of habit. He likes his routines so, this time, every day, is nap time. It's quite handy, really. It gives me the chance to put my feet up. Tea, anyone?'

She went off into the kitchen, closely followed by Mrs Hudson, who insisted on lending a hand.

'I must say, dear, you are looking very well. Motherhood suits you!' Mrs H declared, with an approving smile. 'It's so good that you've got this baby and that John has Mary. It must make it so much easier for you to cope with… well, you know.' 

Mrs Hudson's voice became choked at that point and Molly saw that her eyes shone with unshed tears. She reached out to hug the other lady but Mrs H brushed her away.

'Oh, don't take any notice of me - silly old bat. Most days, I'm fine but every now and then, especially seeing you all together, well, I do miss him. His things are still in the flat, you know.'

Molly was aghast. She had never given a thought to how Mrs Hudson might be coping with Sherlock's 'death'. And she was faced every day with constant reminders of his presence in her home. Although, officially, Mrs Hudson was just Sherlock's landlady, in truth their relationship had been so much closer. She thought of him as a surrogate son and he treated her as a kind of foster mother. She was probably the person he loved most in the whole world.

As Molly boiled the kettle and set out the tea things, Mrs Hudson continued,

'Mycroft has been paying the rent, you know. He asked me to leave everything where it was and he comes over now and then. I think he uses the flat as a kind of bolt hole, somewhere no one can find him. Perhaps he feels close to Sherlock there. I mean, I know they didn't get on well but they were still brothers, after all, and they were all they had. There was no other family, not that I knew about, anyway. So, with Sherlock gone, Mycroft's all alone. A bit like me…' she added, under her breath. Molly reached over and took her hand.

'You are not alone, Mrs Hudson. I really want you to get to know William. You can be his London granny! And…well, I have something to ask all of you but I want to wait until Greg gets here.'

As if on cue, the doorbell announced Greg Lestrade's arrival and the party was complete. Molly and Mrs H. carried in the tea things and set them out on the coffee table for everyone to help themselves.

Now they were all assembled, Molly knew she had to get on with the business of the day. If she put it off any longer, she would lose her resolve and not do it at all so she cleared her throat and said,

'There's something I really have to tell you all.'

Everyone stopped talking and looked at her, expectantly. She gazed around at all their faces, thought Oh, God! and spoke her lines.

'I expect you have all heard the rumour that I had William through a sperm donor.'

No one spoke. In fact, no one moved, either. They all stood like rabbits in the headlights, trying to avoid each other's eyes and feeling rather awkward.

'Well, that's what I told everybody,' Molly added and they all began to relax.

'But it's not true.'

Their ears pricked up again and she had their full attention.

'William's father is Sherlock,' Molly declared.

It was as if a stun bomb had gone off in the middle of her sitting room. Everyone – except Mary – gasped and almost took a physical step backwards, such was their amazement. No one said a word for the longest time and then Greg broke the silence, blurting out,

'But how? Where? When?'

'Oh, goodness me, Inspector Lestrade, you can't ask a young lady questions like that!' Mrs Hudson exclaimed, immediately, making everyone laugh a little too much.

'It's alright, Mrs H,' said Molly, with a diffident smile. 'I want to explain what happened.'

They were all gawping at her, in rapt attention, desperate for an explanation, curious to hear what she had to say. Molly took a large gulp of water – she still couldn't stomach tea – composed herself and began.

'The night you and Sherlock went to Kitty Riley's flat and heard all that rubbish that Moriarty had cooked up, he came to St. Bart's. I was getting ready to go home and, suddenly, he was just there, standing in the lab, in the dark. He was really upset. Earlier in the day, I'd asked him if he was OK because I thought he looked sad but he just shrugged it off…you know what he's like! …what he was like,' she corrected herself.

'But that night, he told me he wasn't OK. I asked him what was wrong. He didn't say, straight away. Instead, he asked me whether, if he wasn't everything I thought he was or everything he thought he was, would I still want to help him. Well, the answer to that was obvious. I asked him what he needed and he said, '…You.''

Just talking about their encounter in the lab, that dreadful night, brought back so many terrible memories that Molly felt her breath catch in her throat and tears sprang to her eyes, over-flowed her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. She shook her head, unable to say any more.

Her audience stared in stunned silence then John came forward and took her in his arms. It seemed they were all finding it hard to speak, such was the overload of emotions. But John managed to find his voice.

'No, Molly, that makes perfect sense, it really does. He was desperate that night. I've never seen him like it. He told me there was something he had to do and when I said I would come with him he said he had to do it alone. He must have realised, right there and then, that what he needed was you. And d'you know what? I sort of feel happy for him…'  
John rubbed his forehead and looked at the floor, regaining control of the emotion that was threatening to undo him. Having gathered himself together, he took both Molly's hands in his and said,

'I am really grateful to you, Molly, that you could give him comfort when he really needed it. And I can understand why you didn't tell us about this before…No, I understand completely. It must have been so hard for you, keeping all this to yourself. But I'm really glad you've told us, now.'

He leaned in and gave Molly a peck on the cheek.

Into the silent room, heavy with private thoughts, a querulous little voice intruded. William was awake. Molly excused herself and went off to her bedroom, where William had been napping in his crib.

She picked up her darling babe and hugged him close. She had told another lie – yes, another one, on top of all the many others - but she knew it was necessary and, thankfully, they had all believed her. Yes, it did make sense that Sherlock might seek out physical comfort when faced with certain death. They could all buy into that. She had taken a big lie and wrapped it up in a small amount of truth and everyone had swallowed it. So, in doing a bad thing, she had accomplished a good thing. Sherlock's biggest secret was still safe and, therefore, so were his friends. Molly dried her tears, smiled at William's curious expression and took him to greet his guests.

While Molly had been in the bedroom, everyone had found their voices and were all talking at once, about her revelation, but they all smiled and gave a little cheer when she appeared with the baby. Mrs Hudson went to the fridge to retrieve the champagne and glasses, and Greg removed the cork with a practiced hand and poured everyone a glass – even Molly had a tiny sip – and they all raised their glasses in a toast to William and Molly and to Sherlock.

Now came the easy bit, to ask all Sherlock's friends to be god parents. They were thrilled and delighted, they replied. They took turns holding their god son-to-be, until he got really fractious, mostly because he had been rather expecting a hearty meal, not a game of 'pass the parcel', with himself in the starring role. Molly excused herself again and went back into her bedroom to feed William, leaving the others to hold a post mortem over the surprising turn of events.

About twenty minutes on, as Molly was just redressing her baby, on the makeshift changing table which was actually the top of her chest of drawers, there was a tentative tap on the door. She called for the tapper to come in. It was John. He perched on the edge of the bed and gave that little cough that he often did when he was about to say something he wasn't entirely sure of.

'What's the matter, John?' Molly asked.

'Please don't take this the wrong way,' he began, looking even more uncomfortable by the second. 'I'm a doctor – as you know, obviously,' – Molly could not suppress a smile – 'and I couldn't help but notice that Sherlock has been…gone for just over ten months and William is only three weeks old. So, not to put too fine a point on it, how can Sherlock be William's father?'

Molly could see how difficult John was finding this conversation but she admired him for having the courage to voice his doubts. She was also very glad she had anticipated this question.

'William was born two weeks late, John,' she said, blithely. 'In fact, if he hadn't come when he did, they were planning to induce me,' she added, for authenticity. 'Trust Sherlock's baby to take his own time,' she giggled.

John gave an exaggerated nod and exhaled loudly. He looked very relieved. Then he asked,

'But does Mycroft know? About the baby?'

'Yes, I told him first, the day after William was born,' she replied.

'Ah, well, that makes sense, then!' John nodded, almost triumphantly. 'That day we came to see you, in the Mother and Baby Unit, remember? When we were leaving, I could have sworn I saw Mycroft get out of a car and come into the hospital. Mary said I was seeing things but I was so sure and now I know I did. He was coming to see you, wasn't he?'  
Molly nodded and smiled, apologetically.

'No, it's OK, Molly, really it is. I just thought I was going a bit mad but now I know I wasn't so everything is fine!' John smiled and hugged her and kissed William on the top of his head.

'Oh, my goodness, young man,' he said, fixing the baby with a stern look, 'I have to say, you are the spitting image of your daddy but, if you are even just half as annoying as him, you are going to drive your poor mum to drink!'

ooOoo


End file.
